A Love Song to Stumptown at 1 AM

Who would've thought,
that your best words were said when you were half-asleep.
I heard your bridges sigh
as my car's exhaust passed along the edges
Your streets laid bare,
no people to clothe them
Your sky-scraped office lights embraced me,
and kept me warm.
Your streetlights whispered through the glass,
and I could feel your breath through the vents
We spoke different languages,
but I think you said
"I miss you already."
I crept back home,
lost,
and raptured.

Summer Night

You pulled me close

as the sun sank into orange sherbert.

Your lips met mine,

and my arms were too heavy to hold me.

My spirit floated with the clouds,

and drifted back down in sunlit rays

to pick you up and carry you with me.

Remember Me: By Lenore A. Pittock

When you look at me
all you see is a
slow, suffering, gray, stooped-shouldered
woman who can barely walk,
is short of breath,
and moves every step slowly one at a time.
_________
Remember who I was before,
laughing, running,
butterfly-chasing child who
danced in the sunshine for the pure joy of it,
through the daises,
measured each step for strength,
and found each day unable to contain
the energy that splashed.
_________
Now you see me no more
but remember me. I am once again
picking flowers,
laughing, running, chasing
butterflies, unable to contain
the pure joy and energy splashing
through me as I dance
in eternity's life with my
creator and savior of my life.

Unstable

Lucy stared at the barrel of the gun while I watched. Her eyes widened in horror and mine did too. Move, I screamed at her, but she didn't seem to hear me.  Both her and I stood frozen, as Brian shouted mutely. His hand shook even as he held the gun, frantic. I couldn't remember what had led to this. Brian and I had always been best friends, never more than that. Occasionally I'd give him money when he needed help paying his rent, or buying his groceries.

Then I lost my job. Brian kept coming over for money, which I didn't have. I told him.

"You don't understand. I need that money." He told me on the third day of no money.

"I  told you I don't have any. I have bills to pay too, you know." Lucy told him.

"Please, Lucy. I don't want to do this."

I noticed for the first time that his eyes were bloodshot, and retreating into his skull. Dark circles hung from his eyes, as if he hadn't slept since the last time I gave him any money. "Do what?" Honestly, I didn't want to hear his answer. I knew it wouldn't be good.

His hand reached behind his back, and I heard the friction the fabric made as a heavy object was pulled out of the back of his pants. The sun caught the steel barrel and flashed right into my eyes. I blinked. Then I opened my eyes and saw into the depths of the gun. Somewhere in that inky black rested a bullet just waiting for a quick escape. "I really don't want to do this."

Lucy searched his eyes frantically, searching for a bit of Brian that had waned over the past few months. I thought he had started to resemble more and more the mug shots on tv rather than her best friend. "Then why are you holding the gun?" She asked him.

"I have to get the money, Lucy." He told me, his eyes wavering.

"I told you I don't have it. I don't have a job either. Though, unlike you, I'm actually looking for one." I knew better to question the lifestyle of a guy with a gun in his hand.

Brian swallowed, and Lucy mirrored him. A lone bead of sweat slid down his right temple. "I'm sorry." The safety clicked off.

"My answer's still no." I saw his life before my eyes, everything from getting sick from his sixth birthday cake to the day when Lucy first saw circles under his eyes.

His slick finger had trouble gripping the trigger. Finally, Brian found the hold he wanted, and he pulled the trigger back.

Ghosts

The hospital had one,

except it was the sort of ghost

that only followed my shadow

everywhere my feet fled.

to hotel at the beach, warmly lit--

and an Italian nursing home.

_______________

My mother's room had a different ghost,

one that clung to the chambers of my heart,

after creeping in through my nose and eyes.

It plagued my sight after I left the room,

filling it with mist, making my chest throb.

__________________

Twenty ghosts haunted the signatures

in her yearbook,

each curve connecting each letter

was a ley line into her world,

a world I wondered if I knew.

The Reluctant I

Everyone loves a good coffee shop. Finding a good one might be more of a problem. There's Starbucks, who a loyal Dutch Bros fan wouldn't be caught dead in. There's Dutch Bros, who the typical Starbucks follower fails to know the existence of. Then, there's the local coffee shops, the holes in the walls, the stand alones, and the caffinated pubs. Those are the best to go. The Bean is my usual haunt.

A different world sits inside, an alternate stage with unusual characters. Not a single hero shows up here. Every patron has a skeleton in their car, some with cat bones, others with an ex-friend's remains. Others have their hopes and dreams grounded up into pale powder, others have burned their bone bridges into ash and keep them in jars. Sitting on a stool means more than sitting down. It means leaving your weight and saying to yourself "I belong." Most likely the scenery will believe you.

The coffee? It's magic. Each puff of steam is made of dying clouds and the sugar comes from stardust. When the barista hands the cup to the guy at the other end of the counter, its like she's giving him a kiss. The kiss isn't a casual Nice-To-See-You, it's a fierce You-Belong-To-Me kiss. She lets go of the cup fast, so only a regular will recognize the spark. In fact, the barista does it to every customer, as long as they're male. Girls get a knowing I-See-That-Once-Over-You-Gave-Him smile, but the barista refuses to compete with them. She saves her kisses for the hand-off. Guys are fair game after that.

The guy on the end? He comes in every other day, after his last writing class. His mustache twitches as he plops down on the stool, and a wry grin forms not on his lips, but in his eyes. After giving the barista a nod for his order, he flips open his journal, and writes. He etches careful letters across the page and he frowns deliberately every time. Most guys order a deep, black, coffee, but he only orders a white-hot chocolate. It sits idle, longing on the counter for his touch, but he ignores it for at least three pages. Then he takes a sip and the room sighs with relief, though it knows he'll always come around eventually.

He never turns to look across the counter. The journal is his lover, his attention, his aim, his all.

My life is lived in prose

I tossed and turned that night. Even jet lag failed to introduce me to my pillow. My bones, tissues, and skin shook under my quilt. Cold tears slipped down my cheeks and passed my chin where they dipped down my neck and pooled on my chest.

Never again haunted me. As I lay there I buried my head underneath the fabric, refusing to face the Mother's Day ahead.

I couldn't meet the way her skin sagged after her soul and spirit left her tattered bones, her infected tissues, her swollen fat, and her leaking skin. I couldn't forget the color of it: washed out green, tallow, ashen, and limp. I couldn't forget my father back home, alone with a cat who hated him.

My eyes closed to forget.

Displacement.

I left the vestiges of my thoughts on the branches of the trees,

Some of my memories linger on the gold and ruby leaves.

Though my feet stand still on concrete floors,

My mind wanders through emerald greens.

My nose breathes in the air within this cramped room,

but I only smell the crisp air in the fields.

I turn my head, and I swear I feel the autumn wind

stirring the ends.

Soon my body will be reunited with my mind,

Soon.

Mr. Manager

Mr. Manager raises dreams,

Then kills them with detergent mixed

with capitalistic greed.

It doesn't taste like cherry syrup,

Or blue coconut.

Rather it tastes like greenish-whiteish tomatoes

On a burnt cheeseburger,

That's 30 seconds late.

Emotion

Crying thick tears,

Like drops of paint.

With cheap mascara, I probably look like a Pollock painting.

But why don't I feel like a masterpiece?

Why do I need appraisal?

I don't need to feel like finger-paint blotches

Yellowing on a refrigerator door,

Loved only by my mother.

I am loved by more than just her,

Perhaps not by the critics,

But what do they know about art?

Hearing Things

We all gathered round and stared at the matching sets of wood, fastened together. The pastor talked about their strong, grounded marriage, with love that overflowed. In the outpouring we smelled something sinister, but we didn't dare speak ill of the dead.

Could the dead hear our thoughts, over the wailing and the tears? Could they hear us over the loss, the hum of the reporters next door? Could they hear the whispers of the children, the needy children, the children left alone? Could they hear it through the two caskets lined with velvet? Could they hear the questions, and the scrutiny?

Something told me they couldn't hear a thing. It wasn't the satin lining. It wasn't the white-noised whispers. It wasn't the buzz of the reporters next door. It wasn't even the wood bound firmly together. It was death. The Grim Reaper himself had covered their ears.

Apology Accepted

She sat on the front steps, staring at the yard. The wind brushed bumps across her skin as she watched the sun hide behind the horizon. If only she could do the same. Fiddling with her shoe laces, she watched the same wind caress the lawn outside. He should probably mow it soon, though tonight felt like the wrong time to ask.

The door creaked open behind her, and the hairs on her neck stood up. For some reason she didn't bother to look. She could only expect one person to come through that door. He didn't bother to say anything, as he sat down six inches from her. Normally he sat around two, but two inches didn't feel right tonight. Finally, after they both stared at the yard they knew by heart, they glanced at each other. Searching each other's eyes, they smiled.

Through Rose Stained Glass Chapter I Scene I

The office sat wearily, even the light sank to the floor on beds of dust. Pieces of paper, once white, had turned yellow with age. Five fingers tapped the desk languidly as two eyes roved the room for some clue as to the time. A sigh fell from his chapped lips as he stood up. He didn't bother to adjust his suit as he trudged across the room to pull the clock from the wall. The batteries had died again.

He pushed his bushy chestnut hair out of his face as he headed back to his desk, dead clock in hand. Fumbling through his desk drawer, he searched for batteries, but found none. With a sigh, he wearily glanced at the frosted glass in his office door. Did he really want to talk to her? Not particularly, but he probably should anyway. After all, he paid her to be his secretary and receptionist for something, though at the moment he didn't know what it was.

He reached for the knob, and took a deep breath as he turned it. Somehow, talking to her took a lot more energy than it used to. At one time she could renew him with energy, and now she seemed to suck it right out of him. He opened the door and stepped into the front room. The secretary in question leaned over her desk, trying to sort through all the piles of paper in vain. It made him wonder why she bothered.

"Do you need something, sir?" She glanced up at him curiously, the light from the lone lamp in the ceiling reflecting of her glasses. Her eyes shone blue, starkly contrasting with all the faded golds and browns that stained the office.

At first, he didn't respond. He just stared at her, wondering how they had come to this. Maybe her age made a difference. It certainly didn't when they first met, at her interview. She had stood out from the rest, then. Maybe he shouldn't have hired her to begin with. It's not like she had the most skills or experiece....but she had a smile that made him melt. To go with it she had a voice that could make any man's head turn, or at least it seemed that way at the time. Now the mere sound of it made him want to hide under his desk.

Even with all that, he still hadn't worked up the urge to fire her. "Do you have any AAA batteries?"

"Er...sure." She seemed like she wanted to shrug off his odd request, but she still needed to work on her acting skills. Rumaging through the bottom drawer, she found a few batteries. "They might work, but I don't know. They're kind of old."

"Like everything else in this place." He muttered, then he added at vollume she could hear: "Next time keep fresh ones in stock." Hopefully he wouldn't allow her a second time. Hopefully he'd finally scrounge up the willpower to let her go.

The phone rang. He waved his hands, in hopes she would get the hint and tell the person on the phone that he   was out of his office. She didn't. Picking up the phone, she chimed "Patterson Private Investigation, this is Kelsey. How may I help you?"

Patterson bit his lip, as he watched Kelsey take notes on the pad in front of her. He should have seen the red flags the first time they met, but he didn't. And now he had the chance to pay for his mistake every time they worked together. Like now, for instance.

"Oh, yes, just a moment please." She looked up at him expectantly, and he wished he could hide.

Patterson summoned up the nerve to take the phone from Kelsey's hand. He dragged it up to his ear, and cleared his throat. "Patterson speaking."

"Portland P.D. We have a case for you."

He rubbed his face tiredly as he scrounged his brain for an answer. "You'll have to give me more to go on than that. I'm not telepathic."

"Remember that gang homicide case a year ago?"

"They already convicted somebody. You're wasting my time." He started to hand the phone to his secretary so she could end the call.

"Wait!" The officer pleaded.

Sighing, Patterson brought brought the phone up to his ear. "What is it now?"

"It made the news, remember? And now, a somebody's committed a murder nearly identical to it, even when the convict's still in jail."

He shrugged his shoulders, trying to muster up the patience for this. "What's your name, Officer?"

"Peter Randall."

Patterson rubbed his forehead. "Listen, Officer Randall, that homicide happened because of a gang fight. It's probably just a copy cat killer in the same gang. Call me when you have a legitimate case for me to work on."

"Just come and check out the crime scene. It's too similar to have been done by another person. I'll even buy you some coffee."

Pinching his eyes shut, Patterson thought it over. "Alright, but it better be some good coffee."

Shadow Fly

This is a shadow fly.

It lives in slights of hand, behind sun rays, stars, and souls.

A shadow fly eats spirits, slips, and stews.

It likes searching, sneeking, sliding, and swimming in dark lagoons.

It sings, shares, strikes, and slips into sentences like Freud.

Today it slithered into the shadows of my subconscious,

Screamed, and slipped into my poems.

A Swim

He gulped one last breath of air before the water engulfed him. It was cold, freezing cold, and it numbed his skin. Moving his arms and legs he swam some distance before he surfaced.

The waterfall gushed swimming pools of water only a few strokes away. Morning light shimmered upon the slow moving current. Needing a rest, the man floated on his back and watched the lush green leaves dance in the breeze. Moments passed by as he pondered what he needed to do when he returned home, what his love asked of him, and the meaning behind it all.

At last he decided to return. Stroke and stroke he pushed himself upstream. He lingered one last second before he leaped out of the river. Liquid streamed down his skin as he moved from the shore to the grass above. His hand swept across the ground to pick up his towel.  Quickly he dried his body off. Loose garments glided over his body. With one last glance at the water, the man returned to where he had come from.

Frolicking

The sunlight bounced off the dancing current. Meanwhile the water gurgled and giggled its way downstream. Once in a while it would drop and splash, but it didn't mind. Beside the playful rapids a lone figure dashed to keep up. Its small bare feet pitter-pattered on the soft, warm grass. Small young squeals erupted from his mouth as his eyes followed the birds flying high above.

His blonde hair bounced as the boy scrambled up the bark of a nearby tree. He raced up the branches, as high as he possibly could go. When at last the boy poked his head through the trees the birds had become mere dots on the horizon.

Yet, the breeze wafted a familiar smell that caught his attention. He could smell the woodstove cooking dinner. In the distance, across a cornfield, the boy could see his home, with his mother waiting at the door. His adventures would have to wait for another day, it was dinner time.

Through Rose Stained Glass, Prolouge Part II

A soft hum lingered near the ceiling. Pastel hues drifted down on sparkling dust from the stained glass windows facing each other. Row after row of pews separated the two sets of windows as if snug in a warm embrace. A lone lectern stood on the stage at the front of the room, bearing a carved cross on its front panel. At the moment the lectern stood alone, empty as most of the room, save one person.

Said person sat one pew back, with his face in his hands. Besides the fans overhead, the room could only hear his soft, relaxed breathing. He didn't notice the stain glass windows, since other matters seemed much more important at the moment. After a few more moments in seeming silence, he opened his eyes. As he lifted his eyes to the rose-stained rose window at the top of the front wall; the pink rays cascaded down his blond hair like children on a water slide.

A smile bloomed on his face. "I'll go."

The door in the back of the small church opened with a soft creak, and a taller figure walked into the sunlit room. His steps echoed off the walls as he made his way down the aisle. A moment passed before he reached the second to front pew, but neither of them noticed. He stopped by the younger man's side, with his dark hair making the blond hair stand out even more.

"Been in here long?" The man with dark hair asked.

The Meadow's Ball

Oh, how she danced! Her skirts glided through the air as her legs blurred into the horizon. No one cared about the difference between her vibrant steps and soaring through the air; they all looked the same to them. The sun swept down to meet her, leading her through a wild dance filled with youthful innocence. He even left tiny little kisses of light all over the curls in her hair. Even the wind blew by, curious to see what the fuss was about. No one knew exactly what the sun and the girl danced to, perhaps the song in her heart.

And so the daisies gossipped about her, and the dandelions chimed in here and there, but she didn't seem to care. The clouds looked down on the dance disapprovingly from above , and a few threatened to ruin the whole thing with a few drops of rain. Something told them the sun would be more disappointed than his dancing partner.

She seemed eager to dance with just about anyone who could keep up with her. Perhaps the rain wouldn't be so clumsy after all. Wild danced didn't need specific partners, or a particular beat; they just needed willing feet.

Near Take Off

Ever wonder about the exact moment someone dies? I know when it happens. It's like flying in a plane, right when the wheels leave the runway. I can see the world outside the small window passing faster than a train...and I feel like I'm about to pass through my seat because my back's pressed against it so hard. And then comes the lurch.

It's probably the most scary, and yet the lurch is the most exciting. I feel my stomach turn in one and a half circles, and for a split second, I break free from gravity. But with dying, I just keep rising. Well, I guess if I was going to hell, I'd probably sink at the same rate, but thankfully I don't know what that's like. When I get high enough, I see more people and in more detail than less. And since the rising takes so long, (or at least it seems like it, maybe it's just that heaven's so far away from earth) I have a lot of time to talk with all these people. And they have so much to say!

They'll tell anyone who'll listen all about their lives. Amazingly, it's as if they've been freed from telling all the boring details, and every story and every detail leaves me breathless and craving more. Even better, it's as if everyone wants to listen, the story will never go unheard.

There's different types of risers. Some shoot straight to heaven like missiles launched from an angry country. Then there's others that zig zag as if they want to savor every moment of the journey in case they miss something important. I see a few that drag, but rarely, since most others willingly pull them up. Floaters seem to move nowhere, but just stay in one place, but I've heard that it's just the effect of them moving so slow and the observer moving so fast. Most important out of all these groups are the bouncers.

They've shot to heaven so fast they've bounced back. Though everyone has an amazing story to tell, the bouncers have the most important information of all. They know about Heaven, and then can tell anyone anything about heaven , as long as it doesn't take too much detail. Most importantly, they know something most people don't:

 Dying's easy, it's coming back that's a rocky landing.

Life Support

As the previous visitors, the color had abandoned the wall, leaving it bare, white, and lifeless. Only sound remained, the soft dying hum of hospital machinery and the gasp of forced breathing. Light filtered through the dimmed window panes, but even that seemed sluggish and reluctant to stick around. Someone knocked on the door, but the man in the bed didn't get up to answer it.

His eyes didn't even open to see who came through the door anyway. Two men came in, watching him breathe, silently waiting for a response. None came. The first glanced to a second, perplexed. His lips barely moved as his whispered, "Are we supposed to ask him, or..."

The second moved his lips as if to say "shh", but no sound came out. Both glanced at the man in the bed expectantly. Moments passed, and still, the room remained unchanged save for the growing tension. Shifting on his feet, the first man glanced at the man in the bed uneasily. He noticed the brace that had replaced the collar that once graced that regal neck. Even when laying down, the man stood proudly, though a hospital gown had replaced his robes.

Finally, the first man sighed softly. "When's he--"

The second glanced at him pointedly, mouthing "wait."

They waited. The moment they lingered for never came, and neither did the answer.